Trapped in the Sky
by KrystalBlaze - Jerikor
Summary: *formerly "Unforeseen"* A freak accident leaves Chris Irvine partially blind. Now he must cope with his newfound blindness, how it will put him at odds with the business he loves, as well as the one he loves.
1. Chapter One

Unforeseen  
  
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"HEY! It's Chris Jericho!"  
  
I stopped, wanting to snap the three boys surrounding me suddenly off. It's not that I didn't like signing autographs. My mind, however, was engaged in another activity. My mind was engaged in searching the corridors for someone, a very special someone . . .  
  
"Can you sign my book?"  
  
Of course, what do you think I'm going to do? Irritably, I signed their papers, smiled for a picture, and sent them off. They were clean-cut, and looked better suited to be mingling in a science fair rather than a wrestling match. Shaking my head, I flashed my identification badge at the security guard, who waved me pass his barricade indifferently. My eyes immediately went back to scanning the corridors for my special someone.  
  
However, the halls were empty.  
  
Growling in frustration, I chose an empty locker room and tossed my bag down sloppily. I was three hours early to the show; I had come early to prowl the arena for Stephanie McMahon. As she was strictly the Smackdown manager, she usually didn't come to Raw and mingle. But of course, her fiancée was a Raw Superstar and I had seen her on his arm more than once in the past few weeks.  
  
I snarled to myself at the thought of her fiancée.  
  
What did she see in Triple H anyway?  
  
"Chris! Mi hombre Christopher, Alamo!"  
  
I paused, and turned around, glaring as Jay Reso bounded up the hall. "It's alto, idiot."  
  
He stopped short of me and said breathlessly, "What?"  
  
"Alto, not Alamo. Alamo is a place, genius. I would have hoped you'd know that by now."  
  
"I am Canadian," he objected loftily.  
  
"Yeah, well, so am I and you don't hear me running around saying "Alamo."  
  
"Everybody's a critic," he said, rolling his eyes. In mid- roll, he was fixated by the door to my locker room. "It wouldn't be so much to ask if I could share your room, is it?"  
  
I nodded, but he was already half-way through the door. Typical Jay. "I'm going to find the booker," I called inside the room, already stepping away. Don't let him come out here, let him stay in . . .  
  
"Wait for me!" Jay yelped, sliding on the polished tile out into the hallway. "Wait!"  
  
"Didn't give me much a chance, did you?" I said sourly as we headed down the hall.  
  
Smiling tightly at me, he said, "So what are you going to do on your vacation?"  
  
"What vacation?" I asked vaguely.  
  
He rolled his eyes in mock confusion. "What vacation? What vacation? Are you serious? Do you hear yourself? It's only the vacation that was begged for; the only vacation that we're going to get for another year; tell me you remember, my friend, tell me the shock of it hasn't erased everything inside you?"  
  
Oh yeah, now I remembered. Three glorious weeks off shows, house or televised; time to relax, vacation, and mourn. Stephanie herself had begged for the reprieve from her father and worn, Vince had given in to her demands. It had worked out nicely; it worked out wonderfully for those who had families to go home to. For those unfortunate enough not to, the holiday looked bleak.  
  
"Dramatic," I grumbled to Jay.  
  
__  
  
"I'll see you later, Chris," Jay told me, his hand on the doorknob of the room, ready to twist. "If you need something to do over the vacation, you can come to my house. You know my mother adores you for reasons beyond my grasp."  
  
"Tell your mom I said hi." I slowly laced the two laces of my Sketchers.  
  
"Seriously, Chris, if you need some company, swing by," Jay insisted. There was a pounding inside my temple. "I know you've only got your dog, and if you really need-"  
  
"Thanks, Jay, I'll consider," I said loudly, drowning out his voice, not allowing myself to look up.  
  
There was a delicate pause, and then he said coldly, "Alright, have a nice holiday, Chris."  
  
"You too," I said, but he was already gone. In frustration, I finished tying my shoes and stood up. Despairingly, I swung my bag up on my shoulder and started out the door. It was a classic case, Jay had once told me, of puppy love. Dr. Jay had prescribed a hardy drink at least twice a day, proficient helpings of painkillers, and some mindless nights of clubbing. The symptoms, Dr. Jay had told me solemnly, were frustration, seclusion from the many things that had once made you happy, and bouts of despair. For a free kit of information, pay Dr. Jay a million dollars and he shall cure you instantly.  
  
Obviously, Dr. Jay had issues.  
  
Well, a drink would be nice. I hadn't consumed yet, but the night was fresh and young and alive. That was the way to be thinking. I couldn't have Stephanie, of course, but she wasn't stopping me from living. She wasn't stopping me from taking my power and striving ahead into the future. I couldn't have her, but she didn't hold the cup over my head, bar me from my pleasures, took away everything that was good besides her. Oh yes, I could live. In fact, a drink and some clubbing and that would cure her. Oh yes, she didn't have the power, she didn't prevent me from any of my daily life, her name didn't run over and over in my mind, cawing-  
  
"Stephanie!"  
  
Her face wide in surprise, a little tinge of pain, she fell from my violent collision. Gasping, I caught her before she hit the floor, cradling her.  
  
"Stephanie, are you okay? Did I hurt you? Can you breathe? Can you hear me?"  
  
"I'm fine, Chris," she assured me, laughing, standing up from my arms. Her brown eyes were warm and her lips alit into a smile. My heart fluttered and dropped. She was so beautiful. "Where are you heading to in such a hurry?"  
  
Put on the good face, Christopher, put it on and don't let her see how much it hurts you. "Nowhere special," I replied, grinning. "I'm just eager to be on vacation, you know." I paused. "You know, Steph, it was really nice of you to tell her father to let us have a few weeks off, really."  
  
For a moment, the smile on her face faltered, and I saw a sliver of pain in her eyes. It was gone as quickly as it had appeared. "Oh, it was no problem, really. I need some time off myself, so don't think it was all for you."  
  
I laughed. "Of course I don't. I know how you are, Stephanie. But I'm glad you asked for all of us off, not just yourself."  
  
She smiled again, and this time I almost died.  
  
"Well, I've got to run." She checked her watch. "I'm a little late. I was heading that way." She was pointing down the corner where I had just swung from and into her. "But I'm glad I ran into you."  
  
"Rather, I ran into you," I said, smiling goofily.  
  
Her face lit. "Yes, that's true. Well, you know, I've really got to head off. Hunter, you know . . ."  
  
The smile slipped off my face. I felt cold churn inside my stomach. "Yea, of course," I muttered, turning away from her, feeling my cheeks flame. "Have a nice vacation."  
  
I heard her heels clicking away, and I felt a piece of heart start to shrivel and burn. Nevermore, nevermore, quote the Raven, nevermore. I started away, my feet feeling as though weights were tied securely to the bottom.  
  
"Chris! Wait!"  
  
I swung around.  
  
She was clicking my way madly, and she stopped a mere inch from my chest. "Have a good vacation," she whispered, and stood up on her toes to kiss my cheek.  
  
I stood frozen. *She kissed me.*  
  
I felt something inside burst.  
  
She smiled at me, nodded quickly, and ran the other way, dashing around the corner and disappearing from view. I stood shock still. She kissed me. Stephanie McMahon had actually kissed me. Stephanie McMahon had kissed ME.  
  
I wanted to fly.  
  
I practically skipped out of the arena, and hit frozen air. It was chilly and there was a cold breeze stirring the leaves of the trees around me, but I was warmed. Who cared about the weather? The stars were hidden by the many lights of the city, but I could see them. They were twinkling brightly, smiling at me, God's little angels.  
  
She . . . .  
  
Who cared about a drink? Drinks made you forget everything, didn't they? Did I want to forget that sweet moment, that wonderful moment when her beautiful eyes had been inches from mine? Did I want to forget that moment when her lips had made contact with my skin?  
  
Kissed . . .  
  
Granted, she had grazed my cheek, but hadn't she kissed me? She had made a conscious decision, right? I hadn't forced her, had I? I hadn't done anything to hurt her; she had come and kissed me out of her own decision. The lights from the city were cutting into my vision, brightly, but what did I care?  
  
Me . . .  
  
I swung around a dark corner into a semi-crowded alley. Doors lined the heavy wood. There were harsh lights that illuminated the puddles of water on the stone floor. I felt a childish urge to run and jump in the puddles. I would wet whoever was in this alley, drench them in this dirty water and let them feel my pleasure.  
  
She . . .  
  
I could barely contain my excitement. Life had never tasted to crisp and beautiful. Ah, everything was so beautiful. I was only a little way into the alley; I wondered that if I screamed my happiness, if they would hear me. I bet the sound would funnel up and out of the tunnel, of yes, this would be wonderful.  
  
Kissed . . .  
  
I could proclaim my love to the world, so help me God. This could funnel the sound, this could funnel every sound. These bricks would make a good echo, I bet. I bet all the people in the city would hear. Ah yes, this would be wonderful, everything would-  
  
BOOM.  
  
"AAARGHHHHHHHHH!"  
  
Agony! Agony, agony, AGONY!  
  
My face was on fire! Agony, ripping, burning, pulling, tearing!  
  
BOOM.  
  
I felt my body ripple and I felt myself flying back. I slammed into the pavement.  
  
I went blind as the agony reached my face. White flares went off in my eyes.  
  
Make . . .  
  
Agony, pain, pain, pain, ripping, tearing, PAIN!  
  
I screamed madly, flailing, clutching my face. I was on fire, I was burning, I was dying!  
  
It . . .  
  
"Hang on, fella, the ambulance is here.  
  
BOOM.  
  
I screamed, tearing at my face, wanting it to end.  
  
STOP!  
  
I writhed, contorted in pain. I was pain, and pain was me, and where I ended, it began, and where it ended, I began.  
  
Just . . .  
  
Please . . .  
  
I felt something swooping into me, embracing me, bringing me into being . . .  
  
Make . . .  
  
I felt blood curdle in my throat.  
  
Please make . . .  
  
"Help is coming!"  
  
Pain wrapped around me, embraced it . . .  
  
Please make it stop . . .  
  
The pain blinded me, knocked me, covered me.  
  
Darkness.  
  
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Acrid smells, the harsh sound of metal against metal.  
  
Darkness had wrapped me in its arms, and I shook them off my shoulders.  
  
I felt panic.  
  
"Help! HELP!"  
  
"Sir, calm down, sir!"  
  
"Why can't I see?" I screamed out, my throat sore. My whole body ached, but I couldn't see. I . . . couldn't . . . see! "Why can't I see? Help me!"  
  
I had to be in a bed, had to be in a hospital, had to be, had to be, had to be!  
  
"Why can't I see?" I roared, wriggling my fingers, moving my toes.  
  
"Calm down, sir! You're in a hospital, General West Hope Hospital! Calm down, I'm a doctor!"  
  
I pawed at my face.  
  
I froze.  
  
"Bandages," I croaked. "Why are there bandages on my face? Why can't I see?"  
  
I heard the voice from my left. I turned there, blindly seeking. See, see, see, see!  
  
Only darkness, only darkness speckled with white.  
  
"Sir, please, calm down. What's your name?"  
  
"What the hell does that have to do with anything?" I yelled at him, feeling my face, ignoring the rest of the aches in my body.  
  
"My name is Dr. Arnold West, sir," said the deep-toned voice. "Please, tell me your name and I'll tell you what's wrong."  
  
I could barely control the terror. "My name's Chris Irvine."  
  
I heard him make an approving noise. "That's very good, Chris. You're in General West Hope Hospital, in the ICU. You're not in life-threatening danger, I assure you. Do you remember what happened?"  
  
"Why would I be asking you if I did?" I snarled, my voice shaking.  
  
He continued on in a calm voice. "I see you don't. There was an explosion. The police say somebody was mixing different solutions, like a science project. Unfortunately, the solutions or whatever the person was making, exploded. It was an unknown type of explosion, and it spilled acid onto the street. You were in the close vicinity of the door, but managed to miss most of the acid. Some, however, was spilled onto your face, or particularly your right eye. Your left eye also, which is why both your eyes are bandaged."  
  
I had my eyes opened, but all I could see is darkness. My eyelids ached fiercely. "What's wrong with me?"  
  
"You see, the acid is unknown. Any acid is harmful to eyes, but this acid is very bad. We were able to get most off before it was able to reach your brain, which is very good. You won't suffer any lasting damage to your brain, it seems, but tests will tell. However-"  
  
"Why can't I see?" I asked hoarsely.  
  
I heard him sigh. "I have danced around the answer, true, but-"  
  
"WHY CAN'T I SEE?"  
  
He sighed again. Dread rose in me. My stomach felt cold. I started to tremble.  
  
"It's because, Chris, the acid damaged your cornea, retina, and optical lens, more in your right eye than in the left, though the left suffered some damage as well."  
  
"What does that mean?" I whispered, but I knew the answer. I knew the answer and I wanted to scream.  
  
"It means, Chris, that you may very well be blind."  
  
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A/N: Please review! 


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two Thanks to my reviewers, you're all so kind! __  
  
I heard the loud whinny of a phone.  
  
I sat straight up. Where was the phone and why was it so dark?  
  
Then I remembered.  
  
The phone continued jangling close to my right side. I figured the phone was on the nightstand, probably next to a lamp. I felt a savage urge to rip the bandages from my face, jump up from the bed I was on, and scream at the doctor that I could see. I was cured, my eyesight had returned, and I was healthy, fit to return home.  
  
The iciness which had gripped me earlier returned suddenly in full force. It was as if I had been plunged into the waters off New York coast.  
  
The phone clucked noisily.  
  
"Answer the phone!" said a gnarly voice from my left. "I'm trying to sleep over here."  
  
I didn't reply to whomever the voice belonged. I had heard the noisy grumblings of the orderlies and of the patient himself as they had moved him in. I had pretended to be asleep then. It had been remarkably easy to hide my bandaged face in the pillows and be motionless. I wanted the bandages off my face, but West had told me that the optometry doctor would be in shortly and I was to wait until then.  
  
The phone continued to bark.  
  
"Answer the damn phone, kid, before I break your leg," growled the gnarly voice.  
  
Apparently Mister Asshole hadn't realized that I was . . . blind.  
  
The icy feeling drove deeper, penetrated every fiber of my being, drowned me.  
  
"Goddamn you, kid, I'm going to kill you," Mister Asshole snarled, and I heard a harsh metallic sound. I kept my face determinedly to the right. Why didn't I just answer him?  
  
The phone rang determinedly.  
  
"Don't you even act like you're asleep!" There were a few soft footsteps, and then a loud crash.  
  
Startled, I yelped, "What's wrong?"  
  
"Damn fool," Mister Asshole yelled, half his voice in pain. "Somebody get in here and get me up!"  
  
I felt increasing vulnerability. Damn my eyes! If only I could see, I could help, and I wouldn't be stuck here acting like some damn harpy!  
  
"Are you alright?" I shouted.  
  
"Shut up, damn kid, it's your fault I'm down here," he hollered back at me. I moved my head, trying my hardest to hear what was wrong. Yeah, hear what was wrong. That was one for the history books. I saw only darkness. I wanted to scream.  
  
The phone finally stopped wailing, but the sound was replaced by a loud commotion.  
  
"Mr. Johnson!" yelped a voice that I recognized as West. "What happened?"  
  
"That damn kid's phone was ringing," Mister Asshole, aka Mr. Johnson, roared, "and he wouldn't answer it! I couldn't sleep!"  
  
"Mr. Johnson, when you're here for surgery, it is not a good idea to be prowling around early in the morning!" West exclaimed. "You're crazy, Mr. Johnson. Help me get him back to his bed, guys."  
  
I heard more loud footsteps clatter to the left, the squeaking of a bed, metal against metal, grunts, groans, and finally a little silence.  
  
"I hope you realize that you shouldn't be out of bed, Mr. Johnson," West said loudly. "It is very bad in your condition. What were you-"  
  
"That kid's phone was annoying me!" Mr. Johnson protested hotly.  
  
"- thinking and that now you should stay in bed," West finished, completely ignoring his patient. "Now, surgery will begin in approximately five hours. No more excursions until then, do you hear me?"  
  
"Who can't?" complained Mr. Johnson. "You're talking like I'm deaf. And tell that kid to answer his phone!"  
  
There was no reply, and then more footsteps. I inclined my head to the left, where they were coming from.  
  
"How are you feeling, Chris?" West asked, and I felt him grab my wrist. I almost jerked it back.  
  
"Considering, I'm not doing too good," I told him. "Can you at least take off the bandages?"  
  
"The optometry specialist will be in here in a few moments," West said, ignoring my question. "He will check your eyes and give his prognosis."  
  
"Can you take off the bandages?" I repeated.  
  
He ignored me again, and I heard the soft rustle of plastic. "Well, I wonder who called. You still need to talk to your parents, don't you? The police have informed them you're in the hospital, so I suppose that was them who were calling."  
  
"Can I take off the bandages?" I pleaded.  
  
There was the barely audible sound of a door swinging open.  
  
"Now, I'll dial-"  
  
"West, the boy asked you a question." The new voice was frail sounding, worn. "I thought you'd learn by now to answer your patients' questions."  
  
"Who's this wacko?" I heard Mr. Johnson yell from his bed.  
  
"This wacko is a doctor," the voice replied. "Not a great one, but one to make a living, I'd say."  
  
"This is Dr. Jerry Parker, Chris," said West in an uneasy voice, "he's the optometry specialist."  
  
"Stop gesturing, West," Parker said loudly. "The boy can't see."  
  
I felt an odd twinge of pain at the words.  
  
"I'll examine him here," Parker continued, "no need to get all riled up and take him to my office."  
  
There was a scraping of a chair and then I felt two hands grip the sides of my head. I jerked back, but the hands held firm.  
  
"Don't move, boy, I'm just taking off the bandages," Parker reprimanded, and I relaxed uneasily. "Shoo, West, go and see your other patients."  
  
"But-"  
  
"I said get." There was a huffy rustle of footsteps, the click as the door swung close, and then Parker sighed. "He's my best friend's boy, but he should have stayed out of medical practice, that one. He thinks it's all a game, but who am I to say? Bright as a bird, but lacks the sense."  
  
I felt a sudden rush of affection for the doctor.  
  
"Now, what's your name again, boy?"  
  
"Chris Irvine," I answered, shivering as his cold fingers gently stripped away the bandages covering my face.  
  
"Don't worry, boy, you're fine. Ah, now open your eyes."  
  
I felt my eyelids slide open. Any second now, yes, I'd see something, I'd see the doctor's face, my uppity bedmate, and Parker would announce me clear and fit to return home. Any second now, I just needed adjusting, that was it, just some adjusting . . . I'd see a drab hospital room, a small door, and some white sheets and walls . . .  
  
I saw darkness with white specks.  
  
The icy feeling in my stomach intensified, swallowed me.  
  
Parker sighed. "You can't see, can you, boy?"  
  
I didn't answer.  
  
"Answer me, I don't have all day."  
  
"N-no."  
  
It came out a petrified whisper.  
  
"Well, let me see now," Parker carried on, and his fingers touched my skin. They were death's hands, these, and they touched me, leaving me intensely cold. I felt him prodding my eyelids, the flesh around my eyes, and sliding my eyelids open. I recoiled as a stab of pain shot through me. "That hurt, did it?" He touched the eye itself and I flinched. "Sorry about that, boy . . . this hurt?"  
  
Slaps of heat attacked the skin surrounding my eyes and I concurred with Parker's words.  
  
"Hmm . . . yes, classic signs, this is . . ."  
  
"What are?" I asked, my voice trembling.  
  
"Don't interrupt me, boy, I'm looking," he said and I was silenced. "Hmm . . . not scratched, penetrated . . . interesting . . . boy, did West say what kind of acid it was that was in your eyes?"  
  
I tried to think back, but the brief explanation that West had given me after his gut-wrenching blow gave no answers. "He didn't say, just said it was an unknown type of acid. The police are supposed to come in and ask me questions later, after."  
  
"Didn't ask you about your personal life, boy, but that was interesting . . . you were walking, you say?"  
  
I swallowed, still lost in the darkness in front of me. "Yes, just taking a nice short walk."  
  
He made an appreciative noise, and finally his fingers stopped probing. "Lie back," he told me, and I heard the metallic scraping of a chair. "Be very still. I'm going to use a metallic instrument, and it may be uncomfortable, but I understand in your line of work you're used to pain."  
  
I would have said yes, but he pushed me back against the pillows and his hands again went to my eyes. I felt a cold thing pressed into my eyelids, into my eyes, and there were indeed sharp twinges of pain, but I fought them off. Again, he finally stopped, and I heard him shift as he sat on the chair.  
  
"You may sit up," he said, and his voice was troubled. My stomach took a slow swoop.  
  
"Well?" I croaked, suddenly trembling.  
  
"Well, boy, I'm not going to lie to you," Parker said, his voice sounding flat and tired. "You're in a bad way, the worst there possibly can be. That acid was horrible to you. You're completely blind in your right eye. There is nothing I can do, nor any other optometrist for that matter, that can restore vision in that eye. Your left eye is better, though not by much. You have some vision left, only enough to make out black fuzzy shapes, I'm sure. With some minor surgery, you can be helped, but even after that, you'll need a strong pair of glasses or a strong contact." He paused delicately. "I'm sorry, Chris, but you'll never see the same again." He sounded like he meant it.  
  
There was the same hollowness inside. I felt shock worm its way through my body.  
  
"You can't do anything?" I asked in a voice that sounded nothing like my own.  
  
"We can do the surgery to repair your left eye tomorrow," he said. "But other than that, there is nothing."  
  
"Thank you," I said, in the same emotionless tone.  
  
"You'll need therapy," he said. "You'll need to learn how to live with partial vision. Dr. West will arrange that, I'm sure. Tomorrow the surgery will be done, if you wish, and soon after, the therapy can begin. You should be cleared to leave the hospital in two weeks at the most, if your therapy goes well." He hesitated. "Remember that I said you still have some vision in your left eye. In a few moments, that should return. You'll see black fuzzy shapes. I don't want you out of bed unsupervised."  
  
"I won't," I promised dully.  
  
He hesitated, and then I felt him pat my arm. "Don't worry, boy, you'll have some vision, and that's more than most in your case, so don't be moping. You'll be back on your feet soon. Would you like the bandages off?"  
  
"Yes," I said, then I wondered. It ached to think. "What do my eyes look like?"  
  
"Oh, they're not sealed shut or anything," Parker chuckled. "They look milky, like there's some sort of covering over the blue irises. The left eye is better than the right, of course, not so milky. It'll attract attention, I gander, but not so much people stare at you in the streets, though I'm sure you already get that, don't you, boy?"  
  
I barely registered his words. "Yeah, sure."  
  
He sighed. "I'll get West to prescribe you some pills or something," he said, and I heard him stepping away. "I'll arrange the surgery tomorrow, and I'll be dropping by later today, no doubt."  
  
"Thank you," I said after him, but he had already gone.  
  
I slumped back against the pillows, lost in the darkness in front of me.  
  
"Blind, huh?" I heard Mr. Johnson say across the room.  
  
"Yes," I answered hollowly.  
  
"That's why you didn't answer the phone?" he quizzed.  
  
I slipped down and turned away from him, hoping he'd take the hint. I felt my eyelids slip shut, but it didn't matter, since I could see nothing as it was. "Yes."  
  
He didn't ask anymore question, and I was glad.  
  
The darkness in front of me was total, complete.  
  
Despair wasn't even as dark.  
  
__  
  
"Mom, you don't have to fly down here," I insisted into the phone. It felt so familiar in my hand; I didn't even have to see it to know I was holding it right. "No, Mom, please, just stay home. It's not like I'm dying or anything. Please just stay home."  
  
"Chris, we're coming down there," my mother insisted. "You're our only son and we want to make sure you're okay."  
  
I made an exaggerated noise to Bernard, who made a small laugh to acknowledge me. He had insisted with his questions after I had come out of my depression, and despite myself, I had found myself getting along with him. He was much older than me, probably by twenty years at the least, but I found him surprisingly able to get on with. He was the only real person I knew in the place, anyway, and the only one I could talk to. He wasn't Mr. Asshole, to say the least.  
  
"I am fine," I answered.  
  
"You're going into surgery tomorrow, please! You need our moral support!"  
  
"I do not need moral support! I'll be drugged before the surgery, high after it!" I practically shouted into the receiver.  
  
"Well, we can talk to you before and after, it's no buts, you can't stop us!"  
  
"You're really hurting my mental psyche," I growled.  
  
"I don't care about your mental psyche, mister, you are still my son and I still care about you." Her voice was etched with worry. "Tell me what the doctor said, Chris. Wait, I'll put you on speaker phone." There was a click and then a small burst of static.  
  
"Chris, are you okay?" my father burst out.  
  
I rolled my eyes without realizing it. "Yes, Dad, I'm perfectly normal."  
  
"Your mother said something about your eyes."  
  
"Yes, but he wouldn't tell me what!" my mother said angrily. "All he said was that he was okay and that he had hurt his eyes."  
  
I felt the sagging of the burden on my chest, weighting me down. "Yeah, it's got something to do with my eyes."  
  
"Well, how bad?" my father said impatiently. "You can still see, can't you?"  
  
I was silent. Pain welled up to me and I wanted to claw the darkness away from my face, claw the veil that surrounded me down and tear it to shreds.  
  
"Chris?" my mother asked again, shaking slightly.  
  
"You can still see, can't you?" my father repeated, sounding slightly horrified.  
  
"No," I said, the words wrenching themselves from me with bursts of pain.  
  
There was a silence on the other end, and then my father stammered, "What?"  
  
"There was an accident," I said swiftly, running my words together, knowing that if I did it fast enough, I wouldn't have to dwell on them, wouldn't have to acknowledge the horrible fact that they were true. "There was an explosion and there was acid. It . . . got into my eyes." Sorrow was choking me. Not even I could speak fast enough to outthink the pain inside me and I had made my living on speaking fast. "I can't see out of my right eye, and I can only see fuzzy shapes out of the left." My voice, again, was that strangely calm, even though my insides were ripping apart. "I'm having surgery tomorrow to repair what's left of the left eye, but even after that I won't be able to see as well as I used to. I'll have to wear glasses or contacts. I'll be partially blind the rest of my life."  
  
I felt the choking dread inside me again, tearing at my insides, yanking around the yolk that made up my inside.  
  
There was silence.  
  
"Yeah, well, I've got to go," I said shortly.  
  
"Chris, wait, let us talk-"  
  
"If you want to come, fine," I cut off smoothly. "You know where it is, but I've already told you I'm fine. I'll see you later."  
  
Ignoring the bursts of sounds from the phone, I replaced the receiver on my lap and opened my left eye as wide as I could. A fuzzy black shape presented itself. It looked exactly as everything else did. I touched the phone and I couldn't even see my hand. All I saw was another dark shape against the lighter shade of the phone.  
  
"This is useless," I growled, throwing my head around and finding a shape that could have been the bedside table, or Bernard's bed. It was useless to try and see this way. It was better to keep my eyes shut. "This is totally useless." I grabbed the phone and placed it on the side on my side, angrily yanking the cord down. "Is West here?" I asked Bernard.  
  
"No," he answered in his weathered voice from the right. "He left awhile ago, kid. So are your parents coming down?"  
  
"I think they are," I said, closing my eyes into the familiar darkness and slumping back against the pillows. From the right, I could hear the chatter of Bernard's TV. "I told them not to, but they are."  
  
"Kid, you're crazy. I'd give anything to have my family down here."  
  
"Yeah, well, I don't," I said rudely, trying to tune out the sounds coming from Bernard's TV. It was useless trying to listen when I couldn't see anything.  
  
"Punk," Bernard said, and despite myself, I laughed. "Punk wrestling kid."  
  
I froze.  
  
"What's wrong?" Bernard said, alarmed, apparently seeing my rapidness. "Did that damn doctor give you the wrong pill?"  
  
I didn't answer him, but fumbled on my side for the phone. I felt its shape and carefully picked it up, feeling the buttons.  
  
"Who are you calling?" Bernard asked loudly. "Hello, I'm talking to you, kid."  
  
"I know, but this is an important call." I felt the buttons. "Oh damn," I growled as I accidentally pressed one and pushed the receiver back on the hook. I was staring straight ahead and I wondered if I opened my left eye, if I could see. No, probably not, I had already tried that experiment. I lifted the phone again, holding it low on my lap, my head high. Carefully I felt the buttons. Breathing shallowly, I dialed the numbers.  
  
"Hello, this is Pizza Hut, how may I-"  
  
"Damn!" I slammed the phone back on the receiver.  
  
"Wrong number?" Bernard guessed innocently.  
  
"I can't see the fucking numbers," I almost yelled at him, again feeling the buttons, this time dialing more carefully.  
  
"Hello, this is live adult line," said a seductive female voice. "Would you like to talk to a live male or female? Either one will surely make your day, let us help you to find the lust inside-"  
  
"Damn it!" I almost screamed, slamming the phone back down again.  
  
"Hey," Bernard said, with a trace of concern in his voice. "Don't break the phone, Chris; you'll have to buy it. You know how damn cheap these hospitals are."  
  
Barely hearing him, I again dialed.  
  
"Welcome, you've reached the CIA tip hotline, if you would like to leave a tip involving an unsolved case or terrorist threat, press-"  
  
Yelling incoherently, I slammed the phone down again. I wanted to break it, I wanted to break everything! I slumped back against the pillows, growling deep in my throat, refusing to let any tears into my eyes. I could still cry, couldn't I? I still had tear ducts, didn't I?  
  
"Well, hello," said West, apparently having just entered the room. He was talking jubilantly. "How are you both?"  
  
"Not that you care," Bernard snorted, "but Chris is trying to make a phone call."  
  
I didn't answer, and turned away from his voice, hopefully having my eyes in the other direction. I still saw the blurred shapes, nothing but a pattern of black and white shapes.  
  
"Is that true, Chris?" West asked as he tapped closer.  
  
Oh, just tell him, he can dial the number for you anyway. "Yes," I answered with as much spite in my voice I could muster. I turned my head back toward his voice. I felt the pressure of the phone leave my lap and I flinched. He had come up on me so quietly, even though his feet were noisy.  
  
"Tell me the number," he said.  
  
I recited the number to him. He handed me back the receiver, pushing the phone into my hand until he was sure I was grasping it firmly. I heard no footsteps, and asked, "Are you gone?"  
  
He didn't answer, but Bernard said, "Nope, he's standing right next to your bed."  
  
"Will you please leave?" I asked, trying to be polite.  
  
"Of course," he said, almost automatically, and I heard him clomping away. There was a slight rustle of the door and Bernard complied with my decision, saying, "He's gone. Damn bastard is a sicko."  
  
I started to agree, and then a soft female voice asked, "Hello?"  
  
"Hi, Karen," I said, forcing my voice to be cheerful. "It's Chris."  
  
"Oh, hi Chris, how are you? Do you want to speak to Kurt?"  
  
"Yes, that would be good," I told her and there was a small silence.  
  
"Why are you stalking me, you sick freak?" Kurt Angle asked as soon as he got on the line.  
  
"I'm not stalking you," I said patiently. "I'm actually amazed I got away from you, you sick freak."  
  
"You know, when you start stealing my words, you know I've got to get angry," Kurt said, and I laughed. Kurt was my best friend inside the WWE and if anyone could cheer me up, the Olympic Hero could. "So why are you calling from a hospital?"  
  
"How'd you know?" I asked, surprised.  
  
"You know, Chris, this is the modern day and age of caller ID," Kurt said in an aggravated voice.  
  
"Shut your trap, Olympic Zero," I told him, "you suck."  
  
"When you start sounding like the fans, then I have to worry," he said, and I laughed again. "So why the hospital bit? You didn't get hurt last night, did you?"  
  
"Well, not at the show," I said nervously, suddenly feeling very foolish for calling him. Why did I have to call him? So I could bitch at him? I had a reason. I had to tell him . . . what? That I was blind now? That I was blind and that . . . I would have to quit?  
  
NO!  
  
I couldn't quit! This was my life! Wrestling was my life, it was my passion, it was the only thing that kept me alive!  
  
This wouldn't hamper me; Parker had said I'd regain my ability to see. I would be able to see. I had to tell Vince, but he . . .  
  
Did I have to tell Vince?  
  
"Chris, if you're trying to prank call me, I suggest you do it another time," Kurt said, and I detected a hint of sleepiness and anger. "My daughter is asleep and she practically woke up when you called. So are you hurt or what?"  
  
"Yeah," I said, still thinking.  
  
"Badly?" he asked, and now there was a hint of concern. "Are you alright?"  
  
Did I have to tell Vince, did I need to tell him?  
  
"Chris!"  
  
"Yeah, sort of," I answered, plunging ahead before I could stop myself. I gave the same brief account of what had transpired as I had to my parents. I said it breathlessly, and when he I finished, there was silence. "Kurt?"  
  
"My God, Chris, you're blind?"  
  
I laughed, a laugh that came out so roughly it sounded more like a dog coughing. "Well, to put it so eloquently, Kurt, I guess you could say yes, I am."  
  
"But . . ."  
  
"But what?"  
  
"You're okay?"  
  
"Well, I'm alive, so yeah, I guess I am."  
  
"That's good." He sounded hurt. "Listen, I think I'll fly down there and help you out, you know? You shouldn't be alone now."  
  
"Oh, that's very touching, really." It came out rudely. "But I'm fine."  
  
"Then why did you call me?" He didn't sound angry; instead, he was merely requesting why I had called.  
  
"Because . . . because . . ." I trailed. Why had I called?  
  
"I thought so," he said in that calm voice of his I knew masked whatever feeling he was hiding. "You don't have anyone to lean on, besides your parents, and you need some friends now. Don't worry, Chris, you'll get through this."  
  
"Kurt . . ."  
  
"No buts, I'm coming down there. I'll call Vince-"  
  
"NO!"  
  
Bernard gave a yelp as he heard my forced cry and I was surprised that West didn't come bursting through the door, yelling, "Tarry ho!"  
  
"What?" Kurt asked, as if he had not just gone deaf from my shouting.  
  
"If you didn't hear me, Kurt, I said no," I said quietly.  
  
"Why not?" he asked, sounding quizzical.  
  
"I just don't want you to, Kurt, please," I pleaded.  
  
"But you've got to tell him, Chris, this is serious."  
  
"I know it's serious, but I just don't want to tell him. I'm afraid of what he's going to say."  
  
"What is he going to say that you're so scared of?"  
  
I felt my hand grasp something that I assumed was the blanket covering my legs. I seized it immediately, finding what I assumed what a loose string, tying it around my finger.  
  
"Chris, answer my question."  
  
"What do you think he'll say, Kurt? Here I was last night, fine and dandy, and now here I am, partially impaired for the rest of my life." The words spilled out from me as water does from a fountain, and I didn't know how to stop it. "You know what he did to Shawn."  
  
"Chris, he didn't make Shawn leave," Kurt said, quietly.  
  
"Shawn left because Vince pressured him!" The words were shouting now. "And that was just his back! What do you think he'll say to me? Let me go with a nice pension?"  
  
"Chris, you know Vince wouldn't do that." Kurt's voice was infuriatingly calm. "You said it yourself; you'd get some of your sight back."  
  
"So what, he'd let me stay on the sidelines?"  
  
"Chris, you're not being rational-"  
  
"I'm telling you, Kurt, like I've told everybody; I cannot stay on the sidelines! Fuck, if he took me out, I'd die."  
  
"Chris, you are not being rational, you're thinking crazy-"  
  
"I am thinking perfectly rationally," I said through gritted teeth.  
  
"No, you're not. You've suffered the worst shock a person can have. It's normal not to think rationally."  
  
"I. Am. Thinking. Rationally," I growled.  
  
"Chris, look, I won't call him, alright? But I am coming down there, and you and I are going to have this discussion in private."  
  
"You are not," I snarled.  
  
"Oh yeah," Kurt said, "what are you going to do about it? Strangle me with the phone cord?"  
  
"You are not funny. You are not coming down here. I didn't call you so you could come down here-"  
  
"Then what did you call me for?" he demanded.  
  
I didn't say anything.  
  
"Point in case," he said quietly. "Well, I'll be there . . . when are you having surgery?"  
  
"Two in the afternoon," I said, "but you are not coming!"  
  
"Well, okay, two," he continued as if I had not spoken. "Hmm, we've got Smackdown tomorrow, the last taping of ours, so . . . I'll be there the day after tomorrow. I just better hear you butt saying how thankful you are for me forking up two hundred bucks for airfare."  
  
"Kurt, listen to my words, feel them. YOU ARE NOT COMING."  
  
"Right," he said brightly. "Be strong, Chris. You'll get through just fine. Well, talk to you soon, Chris. Be strong."  
  
"KURT!" I roared furiously, but it was too late. I heard only a stale dial tone.  
  
I felt the guardrail of my bed and pitched the phone in its cradle over the side. I heard the satisfying crash as it collided with the floor.  
  
Bernardo barked sarcastically, "Oh, that's just great, kid. It's smashed. What the hell got you all riled up?"  
  
"Nothing," I snarled at him, and tried to sink as far down as I could into the bed, closing my useless eyes. I wanted it all to stop. I wanted to questions to end, the horrifying feeling I felt whenever I breathed.  
  
If I had been a spectator, I probably would have said that person in my predicament was overacting. Life went on, you got over it, and eventually you grew used to the fact that you'd never see again. In fact, I'd say that the surgery would restore your eyesight and ask what the person was worrying about, they would see again. There was never any reason to lose hope and embrace despair. As an afterthought, I'd kick the person for ever feeling such helplessness and tell them that they were overacting.  
  
I might as well be kicking myself. 


	3. Chapter Three

Hey, guys, here's my new chapter. Sorry it took so long, but I lost it, and then I had to rectify it. I hope you enjoy it.  
  
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Trapped in the Sky  
  
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Chapter Three  
  
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"West is outside talking to somebody."  
  
"Why is this relevant?"  
  
The gray fuzz on the right side of my eye was irritating me tremendously. I wanted to scream and claw it away, but I could do nothing of the like. As Parker had promised, some sight had come back to my left eye, but it was far from great. In fact, it was as far away from seeing anything and still see as you could get. Everything was represented by shades of gray and black, and shapes were almost impossible for me to distguinguish. Sometimes I was startled and I'd see a pitch of blue or violet, but it would scatter in a hurry. All that represented pictures were black, fuzzy, shapeless forms, against the lighter or darker surface on which it was positioned. It was as if some deranged child had taken a huge marker of black and colored it all over the world and smashed whatever shapes had been to pieces.  
  
I had never imagined being blind would be like this, but it was. I wanted to scream and tear and cry, but what good would it do? It wasn't as if my vision would ever be the same. It wasn't as if my life would ever be the same. It wasn't as if anything would ever be the same. I might as well get used to it. I might as well accept the unchangeable.  
  
Damn you, Chris, you're a coward.  
  
"I just thought I'd let you know," Bernard said, sounding slightly hurt. "You know, since you can't see and everything . . ."  
  
"Don't remind me," I muttered. "So what's happening, then?"  
  
"Nothing," Bernard said grumpily. "I can't hear them well enough to see them. Chris, what in the hell are you doing?"  
  
"I'm trying to see," I replied, pushing back the tide of sorrow. My fingers flicking back and forth in front of my left eye; I had shut my right completely and was vainly trying to see the movement. All I saw was the lesser gray against a darker black. Parker had greatly exaggerated when he had said I would regain some vision in my eye. Vestiges of anger rose inside me at the thought. False hope was not what I needed. Had he thought it would be easier when I could actually see?  
  
"Can you hear them? Might as well hear what the fuckers are saying."  
  
"You've got a bad mouth, Bernard," I said mildly. "Which way?"  
  
"Hey, it takes one to know one. Lean to you right."  
  
I leaned to my right obligingly. I tried to shut out the dots and fuzz in my eyes, to only hear, but there was nothing.  
  
"Nothing," I said. "What do they look like?" Was that a movement? I tried to move my fingers in a snappy motion. There was slight breaking pattern . . . but no, I was imagining it. I had to be . . .  
  
"It's two people, a gal and guy," Bernard reported. "They're looking okay. She's got a few grays and some wrinkles- I'd remove those, her clothes are all out of date-"  
  
"They say only gay men know clothes," I said, not really believing it, but knowing it would piss him off. The lines swayed in my vision.  
  
"Yes, well, touch me, I'm yours," he snapped moodily. "They've both got blonde hair- blondes are so overrated."  
  
"I'm blonde," I reminded him. He wasn't blind, was he?  
  
"Well, we know what's happened to you, not any different."  
  
"I'm hurt."  
  
"I'll get up and kick your ass, that's what I'll do. Your bleach seeped right into your skull."  
  
"Oh, did you make that one up yourself or did your mommy help you?"  
  
"Shut up, you punk ass," he said. "They're still arguing- the man's got on a jersey or something, kind of big-"  
  
I froze. My fingers flopped to my side.  
  
"Chris?" Bernard sounded alarmed. "Are you alright?"  
  
"Hockey jersey?" I asked faintly. "Is it a hockey jersey?"  
  
"How am I supposed to know?" he grumped. "I'm a Rams fan myself, shame they moved from-"  
  
"Bernard, does he look like me?" I said urgently.  
  
"What?"  
  
"The man, does he look like me? Tell me!" I wanted to scream.  
  
There was a slight pause. "Well, sort of, he's got short hair, not like your beautiful mope, you arrogant little- "Suddenly he fell silent and with a loud breath, he said, "Oh."  
  
"I have to get out of here!" Frantically I began to feel along the side of my bed. No, my parents could not be here. I had ordered them away. No, they couldn't be. They couldn't be. I would die. I was going to die.  
  
"Chris, you fuck, wait, it's not that bad!" Bernard was talking calmly with a dead urgency. "Are you crazy? Man, I'd give anything to have my family here and you're trying to run away. God, kids today are so ungrateful. You're a crazy bastard."  
  
My hands clasped on something cool and metallic. It had to be the guardrail of my bed. I kicked off my blankets.  
  
"Chris, you bastard, stop! Listen to me! Where the hell are you going to go? You're blind, you crazy son of a bitch, are you expecting to walk to Wal-Mart like that?"  
  
Yes, Bernard, I was blind.  
  
I was blind and my parents would pity me and they would say, "Oh, we love our son, yes, but he's blind now, decrepit, we have to take care of him. Yes, tedious, but we love our poor, crippled son." Yes, Bernard, they'd love me and fawn on me and tell me everything would be better. They'd try to kiss away the bruises that could be kissed away; they would try to stop the creation of man from working its dark wonders on my eyes; they'd call on Jesus and the sweet Holy Mary to pray for their son, oh yes, pray for him, and he shall be healed. He shall be healed and work his own magic upon the earth. Oh yes, Mr. Johnson, we love our son, and we're just trying to give him the best. Oh yes, my son's friend, Bernard, he was really sweet, but you know, I was just glad to get my darling son out of that hospital . . . yes, the accident was rather unfortunate, but what can you do? Yes, thank you for your prayers . . . your prayers never did shit for me, but who cares; I'm Chris, the blind one who will die in his own self-pity.  
  
I wanted to scream.  
  
"Chris, please- woah!"  
  
Trusting ten years of leaping and flying, I vaulted over the railing on the bed. Blind panic captured me- for a moment, I froze completely and almost let go of my cool hold. Three seconds lasted an eternity. My legs scrabbled, kicked, and suddenly there was a jolt from underneath me. My knees bent, almost buckled. But I was standing.  
  
I had to be standing on the floor. I moved my head vainly, at the moment preoccupied with the notion that I could actually see. I wavered on my feet, still grasping the cool steel of what had to be the guardrail of my bed. My legs were shaky after hours of nothing but lying, but it soon vanished. Now I just had to deal with the sense of vertigo and helplessness that came toward me.  
  
"Get back in that bed!" Bernard was furious. "Get back in there, you damn fool, before I call the doctor and-"  
  
"Which way is the bathroom?" I asked calmly. I had to remain calm. I had to get out before my parents could get in here and look at me with that pity and shame in their eyes, that pity and shame that I wouldn't even be able to see . . .  
  
"The bathroom?" He treated me to a few moments of stark confusion, and then he yelled heatedly, "No, I will not help you! You are being a stupid brat and you need to get your ass back in that bed NOW!"  
  
"Your blood pressure, Bernard, watch your blood pressure." I took a step forward, still holding onto the guardrail. Sudden pain shot up my thigh. I stumbled back, barely able to stay steady, and I heard something loud clang to the floor. I cursed softly and shook out my leg. That had to be my bedside table . . . the thing that had fallen had probably been the phone . . .  
  
"Kid, listen to me, you are being stupid and idiotic. Listen to me, you're being some punk, some asshole, who can't even see what's- and YOU ARE NOT LISTENING!"  
  
I didn't bother to respond to him and determinedly turned away from the table and took another tentative step forward. No pain snaked up on me. That's right, no pain, no gain. I went forward gingerly, still clutching the rail as if it were my lifesaver. That still didn't give me a clue to as where the bathroom was.  
  
"Bernard," I said quickly. "Where's the bathroom?"  
  
There was a shocked pause and he said, furiously, "You expect me to help you? Are you INSANE? Get your ass back in that bed before I call West NOW!"  
  
Ignoring him and taking a quick breath, I let my hand drop from the rail and I plunged sideways in a fast movement.  
  
That's right, leave it all to faith. Faith will lead you home.  
  
Faith led me right into a blunt object at such a speed that it knocked the wind out of me.  
  
Bernard yelped from close by as I staggered back, rubbing my stomach in an attempt to loosen the grip of pain. Panic and frustration welled in my head as the voices from outside the door grew louder and angrier. I could still not distuinguish the words, but the angry buzz was enough.  
  
"Are you alright?" Bernard asked. I didn't answer and instead groped blindly. My hands suddenly connected with cold steel. This had to be Bernard's bed.  
  
"Where's the bathroom?" I fairly yelled.  
  
"Fine," he snapped, suddenly relenting, and sweet relief washed over me. "Fine, you want to be an ass? Damn you, Chris, you're an idiot. Hold the rail and go forward until you reach the end. Then it's a few more steps until you hit the wall."  
  
"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" I wanted to throw myself upon his feet and kiss his ring. He didn't sound happy, but he didn't need to be. All he had to do was direct me to my escape route. Grasping the rail in one hand, I sidled forward until my hand came loose and hit open air. I flew forward, remembering that the wall was a few more steps ahead.  
  
I smacked it with such a force that I almost fell over. I muffled my curses as I regained my footing.  
  
This is going splendidly, I thought deliriously.  
  
"Nice job, kid. You should do this as a profession." Bernard snickered, but he sounded heavy. "Parker just came up. He's talking to West. It looks like they're going to open the door. Go to the left. Hurry, they're coming in."  
  
Panic fluttered around my heart.  
  
I scuttled left, holding onto the expansive thing I assumed was the wall. I heard the rustle of a lock and then a loud click.  
  
Almost yelling, I felt the breaking of the wall and a gap. I threw myself in the room, my thighs smacking against something sharp, but I ignored the pain and grappled for the door. I felt a sharp edge, took it for the door, and closed it as quietly as I could in my haste. I was panting hard, my whole body aching. I wanted to stagger to the toilet I knew had to be present, but I felt exhausted. I sagged against the door, quieting my breathing, and listened.  
  
"Well, hello, Mr. John- where's Chris?'  
  
I smiled at the utter confusion in West's voice.  
  
"What do you mean, 'where's Chris?'"  
  
The smile fell off my face with the swiftness of an arrow. It was my mother's voice, slightly panicked, and tired. She sounded exhausted, almost. Almost as tired as I was.  
  
"Nothing, I mean, nothing." It was almost gratifying to hear West stammering, but my mother's voice kept me silent.  
  
"He's not here. Where is he, then?"  
  
"You can't have misplaced him, could you?"  
  
My father's voice was like gravel crunching. I winced. He was talking slowly, in a deep, calm voice that was always his when he was slowly becoming angry. It was something I liked about my father, yet I hated it as well: he never sounded angry. I remember when I was kid I used to tangle with the trampoline in the backyard, even after he had sternly ordered me off it; when he caught me, he spoke long sentences with words I didn't understand, in the calmest voice I had ever heard. I was unsure of whether he had been angry; after the sound beating with his belt I had understood better.  
  
"I'm sure Dr. West hasn't lost his patient," Parker said in a slightly bemused tone. I shivered at the tone. He sounded frail and old, yet when he spoke, he was wiry and intelligent. He scared me, but I guessed it was because he was the bearer of news: he had handed down the judgment about my eyes, and he was performing the surgery later on. He might as well be the minions of Satan sent to carry down the sentence of hell.  
  
"Mr. Johnson, have you seen Mr. Irvine?" West asked in a panicked tone.  
  
"Yup," Bernard replied. "He got right up and walked out. He got straight up, flipped over the right side of the bed, found the door as sure as he could see, and headed out."  
  
Thank you, Bernard, for your efforts you will be paid dearly.  
  
"Wha . . . what?" My mother sounded stricken.  
  
"He got up, said he had to leave, and left." Bernard said it with so much ease that I almost believed him. "Walked right up and left. It was most fucked- excuse my language, ma'am- funniest thing I'd ever seen."  
  
My mother wailed, "He left? How could you let him leave?"  
  
"I think we need an explanation," said my father, and a tone of anger crept into his voice. "You've kept us out of this room for almost ten minutes and now our son is gone? What kind of hospital is this?"  
  
"Nonsense!" West cried. "He can't have left . . . he's blind, for God's sakes . . ."  
  
My mother wailed.  
  
"Quiet, honey . . . I demand an explanation. You, sir, did he say where he was going?" My father always had a knack of going straight for the meat of the matter.  
  
"We'll have to find him at once, Arnold," Parker said, still in the slightly bemused tone, and it disturbed me. "Send out search parties to scour the hospital."  
  
"Yup, he's been gone awhile," chortled Bernard, and there was another unhappy sound from my mother.  
  
"You'll find my son at once, or you will be sued," my father said, in his deeply calm voice, still coloring with anger. "You will find my son or-"  
  
"Of course!" West stammered. "Of course we'll find him. He can't have gone far, he can't have! Yes, at once, follow me, Mr. and Mrs. Irvine . . ."  
  
"Come on, honey," my father said in a fierce voice that was still calm. "Let's go with the good doctor," he continued in an exaggerated tone, "and find our son."  
  
That's right, Dad, hit him where it hurts.  
  
"Oh," Parker said, still in that slightly bemused tone. "Why is Mr. Irvine's phone on the floor, Mr. Johnson? It is on the left side on the bed. I thought you said Mr. Irvine got out on the right side."  
  
There was an awful, sickening pause. We had both forgotten about the phone I had knocked over in my haste to escape to the bathroom.  
  
Fumbling, Bernard said, "Uh . . . well, you know, on the way out, he kicked it. Those phone's ain't steady, you know. One push and they come down."  
  
"Of course," Parker said, this time icily as well as bemused. "Of course he did. He's a very bright young man who is just on the wrong direction."  
  
I almost fainted. He was faking! He had to be! He knew I was in the bathroom!  
  
"Let's go, shall we?" West said uncertainly.  
  
"Of course," Parker said, still in icy tone. "We must find him, of course. Wrong directions can be easily corrected."  
  
I think I did faint.  
  
There were more sounds, the swinging of the door, and then a loud clang and click as it closed. I wanted to cry. Parker hadn't known. He'd only hinted. He hadn't known. I sighed. Still staring at the darkness I was trapped in, I sagged against the door, on the verge of collapse. I wanted to sleep, then and there, pass out and maybe wake up from the nightmare. I'd already tried it, but second time could be the charm. I'd just have to wait for the cue from Bernard to stagger back into the bed. They'd check the room again, of course, and then I'd have to face . . .  
  
No. I'd run back into the bathroom again. I'd keep Bernard on watch twenty-four hours, and whenever they returned, I'd hide in the bathroom. I'd never have to face them.  
  
I'd never . . .  
  
What kind of idiot are you?  
  
"They're gone, Chris," Bernard hollered from outside. Good. I could collapse on my bed now. As my hand touched on the knob, I stopped. Bernard sounded . . . cocky. He sounded happy. He sounded . . . like Parker had.  
  
"Are you sure?" I asked uncertainly through the door.  
  
There was a small laugh, "Of course there's nobody. Come out, you punk ass kid."  
  
There was the Bernard I knew and hated. I twisted the knob, pushed open the door, and tapped hesitantly forward.  
  
"Thanks for covering for me, Bernard. You had them fooled good."  
  
"Not all of them," Parker said.  
  
I froze. My senses tingled.  
  
He was here!  
  
"Bernard!" I shouted accusingly, panic rising in my voice. "Bernard, what the hell?"  
  
"You're a nice guy, Chris," he said, sounding pleased. "You're smart too. You're just being a stupid kid."  
  
I wanted to tear his throat out.  
  
"You certainly set us in circles, boy," Parker continued. "West will have your head when he finds out you tricked him, but never fear. If we get you back into bed, nobody but me will be the wiser. Let's go, boy. You're acting like a fool."  
  
There was a small tapping sound. His footfalls. A bony hand touched my arm and I jerked back, colliding with the wall.  
  
"Don't touch me!" I yelled at him. "Don't touch me!"  
  
"Don't be a fool," he snapped. "Let me help you." Again, his hand touched my arm, and this time, I skittered across the wall, anger smoldering inside me. Anger . . . and pain.  
  
"Chris," Bernard said in exasperation. "Don't be an idiot, kid."  
  
I didn't answer him. As Parker's fingertips grazed the flesh of my arm, I stepped forward quickly and collided with what I took for Bernard's bed. I yelled my pain, took the blow, and rammed along the rail until I came to the end and then hurled to the right so that I was alongside the bed.  
  
"Chris!" Bernard yelped. "Parker, stop him!"  
  
"He's being an idiot," Parker observed in a sulking voice. "But he needs help." This time, his hand closed on my elbow, and he held me.  
  
Get out of it! Get out of it! Choke him!  
  
I struggled against his hand. "Let go of me! Leave me alone! Let go of me! Don't touch me!"  
  
Another hand came to bear upon my struggling form, and I screamed my rage and frustration at deaf ears. "Leave me alone! DON'T TOUCH ME! DON'T TOUCH ME! JUST DON"T TOUCH ME!" It was insane! A fifty plus man had to be holding me, and yet he was holding me as if I were a child. I should be able to break his hold . . . break his filthy fingers for doing nothing to help . . .  
  
Nobody had helped me. Nobody was ever going to help me.  
  
The fire inside me turned into nothing but an ember.  
  
"It's alright, Chris, it's all right." Parker's voice was firm and strong. He handled me gently, holding both my arms in a firm, cool grip. "Everything's all right."  
  
I wanted to sink. I wanted to drown. I wanted to see.  
  
Just stop this pain . . . just stop this anger, just stop it all!  
  
I realized tears were sliding down my cheeks, invading my lips, touching my tongue. I tasted the saltiness. I was crying in this man's arms. I was shaking, trembling, crying in a stranger's arms. But it felt . . . right.  
  
"It's okay, Chris. It's okay."  
  
He was shunting me forward, and I let him. I was limp. The tears continued to stream down my face, a steady river that had no end. There was nothing but this pain. There was nothing but this hurt.  
  
I heard a metallic scraping sound. "Get in," Parker ordered, and pushed me forward. I felt the softness of the bed, and obliged, crawling in methodically. I scrubbed at my face, at the tears, forcing my voice to revert from whimpering to harsh breathing. Feeling around, I pushed the blanket down and maneuvered my legs under it. I pulled the blanket up to my midsection, pushed my arms underneath it, and turned away from Parker.  
  
Just leave me alone. Let me die in my own self-pity.  
  
"Are you alright, Chris?" Parker asked, hesitantly.  
  
"Do you think I'm alright?" I asked harshly, all the tenses of crying gone from my voice.  
  
I wanted to heap it all on them. Heap it all on them and then I wouldn't have to deal with it. I wouldn't have to see it . . .  
  
"Chris, I think you're in a lot of pain," Parker said carefully. "I think you're in a lot of pain. I think you need a psychiatrist."  
  
I laughed a scream. "You have the money so he can see me, wacko doctor? You have the fucking money so he can come here and listen to me scream? You have the money so he can come here and hear me say, 'I'm so fucking poor now, you see, because I can't see, and now I'm blind?' If you have that money, let him come. I can say everybody's gonna look at me now? My future is over? My career is over? My whole fucking life is over? What the hell do you think, Dr. Wacko? My career's over. My life's over. You do just fine listening, Dr. Wacko. I don't need some damn idiot to come and listen."  
  
There was a silence, only Bernard's shallow breathing and Parker's heavy breathing.  
  
"Chris, listen, you're not-" Parker started.  
  
"I am!" I screamed. "I know my life is over! Isn't that enough? Aren't I accepting the obvious? Aren't I accepting what I can't change? Huh? Aren't I? I know my life's over, okay? Okay? Isn't that enough for you? Just leave me the fuck of alone."  
  
Now he would leave. He'd let me die in the pity . . .  
  
"You know what, Chris?" Parker spoke angrily. "You know what? You're so busy being with pity in yourself, you're thinking that nobody can know what you're going through. You know what, you ass? You want people to pity you. You want them to look at you and think you're so hurt. You hate it, but you want it. Boy, you have family who loves you and you're here, pushing them away. You think you're so damn special, and you ain't. You know what, boy? You make me sick. I'm trying to help you and you're acting like an ass. I don't pity you, you damn kid, I don't pity you, and nobody else does either, you fucker. And I am going to do your surgery whether you like it or not, and I am going to get your parents. Get a life, you damn idiot."  
  
There was an angry stomping sound, there was the creak of the door, and then he was gone.  
  
I wanted to ignore what he had said. I pushed my head into my pillow, tried to block out the words. Tried to block out what was happening. I wanted to die, I wanted to scream, I wanted to punch whatever life I had ever known back into the world.  
  
I wanted to stop thinking. I wanted to stop knowing that Parker was right. 


End file.
